Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

by Charles Todd

  It was signed, Your loving grandfather.

  “Did no one answer this man, when the letter came?”

  “She’d left of her own accord,” the housekeeper protested. “We didn’t like to write and tell him so.”

  “Did he ever come to the house?”

  “If he did, he never identified himself as a relative of hers.”

  Then had the grandfather found his missing granddaughter?

  If he had, there was surely no reason to hate either Herbert Swift or Captain Hutchinson.

  Or was there?

  He looked at the envelope in his hand. The return address was MacLaren, Trahir House, followed by an address that Rutledge thought must be north of Stirling, in Scotland. A man of substance, this grandfather, not a simple clansman.

  Thanking Mrs. Cookson, he left, and Thornton said, as they went out the door and down the steps to the motorcar, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But I intend to find out.”

  He sat for several minutes in the motorcar, staring across the road at the grassy expanses and tall trees of the square, enclosed by its iron fencing. That reminded him of Marcella Trowbridge’s cottage. Setting the memory aside, he considered his position.

  No doubt Sergeant Gibson could find the information, given time. But that would mean going to the Yard. And explaining Thornton. It had perhaps been a mistake to bring him, but by the same token, keeping an eye on him was paramount until a proper search of the man’s house could be made. So far there had been no time for Thornton to dispose of anything incriminating. Including a rifle . . .

  Who else, then?

  Mr. Belford came to mind.

  But did he, Rutledge, wish to be beholden to the man?

  They had worked together—in a manner of speaking—on another case. And neither man had quite trusted the other. Rutledge had looked into Belford’s past while Belford had explored Rutledge’s. An uneasy truce had been declared.

  But there was the fact that Belford had probably worked for Military Intelligence, even though his curriculum vitae showed he’d spent the war in the Military Foot Police. It was as good a cover as any. His contacts went beyond any information that Gibson had access to, and time at the moment was important. Something had to be done with Thornton, and soon.

  Hamish said, “It’s haste driving ye. And you’ll find yoursel’ owing the Devil his due.”

  It was a risk. He knew that. But what choice did he have?

  Taking a deep breath, Rutledge turned the motorcar toward Chelsea.

  It was very likely, he thought, that Belford wouldn’t be at home. But as luck would have it, when he knocked at the door, a footman told Rutledge that he was in.

  A few minutes later, Rutledge and Thornton walked into Belford’s study.

  Nothing on the desk would indicate what the man had been working on before Rutledge came to the door. It had been cleared away with swift precision, and somewhere in this room, he thought, would be a drawer designed to hold whatever had been there.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” Belford said, rising from his desk. A tall, trim man, he seemed to be a gentleman of leisure, not a master of information. “What brings you here? And who, may I ask, is your guest?”

  “This is Mr. Thornton, a suspect in a double murder. If you don’t mind, I should very much like to lock him in a room while we talk.”

  Thornton said, “Here—!” and stepped back as if expecting to be taken away.

  Belford said, “If we are circumspect, no harm done. Let him stay.”

  Rutledge smiled. Did nothing catch this man off his guard? Taking one of the chairs pointed out by their host, he said, “There were two deaths recently, one in Ely and another in the nearby village of Wriston. A Captain Hutchinson and a Mr. Herbert Swift were shot by someone using a rifle. Suspects had a good reason to kill one or the other, but not both. Unless of course the second man was a—er—distraction from the real target. Until yesterday I could find no connection between these two men. Now it appears that one of them, Swift, employed a young girl, Catriona Beaton, as housekeeper while he was working for the Admiralty in Glasgow. When the war ended, the young woman, as she was then, decided she preferred to seek employment in London. In due course, she went to work in the house of Captain Hutchinson. And in due course, she went missing from this house, and no one seems to know where she went. Or indeed if she is still alive. A body was found later, the identification uncertain. The only connection we have with her past is her grandfather, a man by the name of MacLaren, who lived at Trahir House in Scotland, somewhere north of Stirling, if I remember my geography. He could well be dead. If he isn’t, he could possibly tell me what became of his granddaughter. And whether the police ever told him about locating her remains. And whether or not she could have been the reason these two men were killed.”

  “You think someone in her family could have been out for revenge.”

  “It’s a long way from Scotland to Ely.”

  “And Mr. Thornton here?”

  Thornton spoke before Rutledge could answer. “I knew Hutchinson’s wife. I was to marry her. She chose Hutchinson instead. It was not a successful match, and she killed herself.” It was bald, emotionless, and yet there were brackets of pain—or anger?—around his mouth. “I would have enjoyed being the one to kill Hutchinson.”

  “In short, you’re the first string to Rutledge’s bow?”

  “I believe I am.”

  Belford turned back to Rutledge. “Is there a good reason why Mr. Thornton is here and not in gaol in Ely?”

  “There hasn’t been time to search his house for the murder weapon.”

  “And so he’s here, meanwhile? Rather unorthodox, but effective.” Belford toyed with the inkwell on his desk. It was surmounted by a rather handsome eagle, and Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it had once belonged to the Kaiser. “I do happen to know of a MacLaren. I expect he isn’t your man. He was in the Lovat Scouts—the Boer War. One of their finest shots. My uncle delighted in telling us tales of his prowess. But he resigned when the war was over. And was never heard of again. It was generally thought he’d gone back to Scotland.”

  Thornton said, “His children would have been MacLarens. But his grandchildren could have borne any name.”

  “I don’t believe he ever married,” Belford responded. “That was said to be the reason why he took on the most dangerous assignments.”

  “Nevertheless,” Rutledge returned.

  “I’ll look into this matter. He shouldn’t be difficult to find.” Belford glanced at Rutledge. “Are the resources of the Yard no longer available?”

  “They are—if one wishes to be found out by a superior who is anxious to see this inquiry closed,” Rutledge retorted.

  “Ah. Markham, is it? He had something of a reputation in Yorkshire. But then he knew his turf, and he was seldom wrong. London is a very different matter, I should think.”

  They rose, and as Rutledge moved toward the door, Belford added, “Where can I reach you?”

  “My flat. I’m sure you know where that is.”

  “Quite.”

  As the door was closed behind them, Thornton said, “Remind me never to cross that man.”

  Rutledge grinned sardonically. “One sups with the Devil when one turns to him.”

  “I shouldn’t think the Yard would approve.”

  Rutledge didn’t answer him.

  They spent the rest of the morning and half the afternoon in Rutledge’s flat. Thornton paced the floor like a caged lion, back and forth, back and forth, while Rutledge sat by the door and waited, fighting sleep, which kept threatening to overwhelm him.

  It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when a messenger arrived with an envelope.

  “Rutledge?”

  “Yes.”
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  The man handed him the envelope, turned back to his motorcycle, and was gone in a roar.

  Rutledge sat down again, hesitating before he broke the seal.

  I was right. MacLaren was in the Lovat Scouts. And quite a dangerous man with a rifle. He acted as a sharpshooter in several matters where it was deemed necessary to—er—take certain measures. He never married.

  However, it is reported that he had one child out of wedlock, and she in turn had one daughter. The mother of that child was killed in an accident when the girl was five. Her father died in France during the war. Her name was Catriona Beaton. MacLaren has not been seen at Trahir House for some years. It’s thought that he is dead. The house is now occupied by his brother’s family. I did not speak to them, leaving that to you.

  I shall collect my fee for this information at some future date.

  It was signed with a B.

  Hamish said, “Aye, you’ve made your bargain. It willna’ sit well at the Yard.”

  Making an effort to ignore the voice, Rutledge considered the problem of this man MacLaren. He could worry about Belford later. Where, he asked himself, was this Lovat Scout? And how much did he love his granddaughter? He was alive when she vanished. But a Scot in Cambridgeshire would draw attention the instant he opened his mouth. And someone would remember . . .

  And what was he to do with Thornton while finding out?

  As if he’d heard Rutledge’s thoughts, Thornton said, “Don’t mind me. I’m enjoying this quest of yours. It’s likely to clear me.”

  Rutledge turned to him. “Were you a sniper in the war?”

  The question came out of nowhere, and Thornton wasn’t prepared. His face betrayed him before he could school it to show no reaction.

  He didn’t need the War Office now to tell him the truth. But verification would serve the K.C. to prepare his case.

  “A battlefield promotion. You must have done something extraordinary to deserve that. What was it?”

  “That’s none of your damned business.”

  “But it is. Anything to do with you is my business. Did you bring your rifle home with you? Against all orders?”

  Thornton was prepared this time. He said blandly, “What use would I have for a rifle in waterfowl country?”

  “It was your closest companion—no one else except your commanding officer accepted what you did as brave. Shooting from cover? And there was Hutchinson. Did you think it might be useful one day to kill him? It was your weapon of choice. Not the Gurkha knife. Nor the thuggee garrote.”

  “I wasn’t ashamed of what I did. It saved lives, my skill.”

  As it had done. Rutledge took a deep breath. “All right. Let it go. But if I find you’ve armed that old man and sent him out to do your dirty work for you, I’ll have you up as an accessory, to hang beside him.”

  “Did you know that the windmill keeper was a Scot?”

  “The windmill—the one in Wriston?” And he remembered. Discussing Hogmanay with Marcella Trowbridge, who knew the man as a child. Who had told him that Angus was likely to be dead. McBride had suggested he’d drunk himself to death after the fire in the windmill cottage. But had he? And if he had, where was he buried? More urgently, was he a MacLaren?

  Rutledge sprang to his feet, weariness forgotten. “We’re going back to Cambridgeshire. Now.”

  He was on the road before he thought of something. He’d been mulling over all the evidence as he threaded his way through the London traffic, and he turned around, heading back into the city.

  It was Miss Hutchinson who knew the answer, and he would see her this time if he had to break down her bedroom door.

  Thornton, alarmed, said, “What the hell? I thought we were going to Wriston.”

  “Not yet. I want to speak to Miss Hutchinson again.”

  This time he found her at a late lunch, sitting at the head of the long table in the splendidly proportioned dining room. The table, he thought as he was ushered in by the housekeeper, would easily seat twenty-four.

  She looked up in annoyance at the interruption, recognized Rutledge, and said, “I thought you’d left.”

  “I had. Another question occurred to me. Where was your brother when Catriona Beaton left this house?”

  “Where he always was. He’d just returned from France, where the ministries were meeting to discuss the treaty. Where power was, there my brother could be found.” There was pride mixed with bitterness in her voice. “That week, he’d gone to Gloucester with some Colonel or other. I think that’s why Beaton chose to leave then.”

  “Because she knew he would follow her and possibly find her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I daresay she found this household too restrictive for her—er—tastes. London had changed her. Once she had left, she was no longer our responsibility.”

  “Who did she know in London? Where could she have turned until she had found a new position?”

  “Without a reference, she wouldn’t have found a new place. No, she was most likely on her way to Scotland, where she came from. If she’d saved her wages, she could have taken the train. There was no certainty that the body the police found was Beaton’s. We made the assumption, of course, but there you are.”

  The housekeeper had said she hadn’t collected her last month’s wages.

  “Yet two months later her family had had no word of her. Or from her.”

  “I’m not aware of any correspondence from her family. Or that she had any family living.”

  “Mrs. Cookson received such a letter.”

  “Did she? She’s responsible for the staff, of course. I leave such matters to her.”

  “Which tells me that her family was left to wonder what had become of Catriona.”

  “I remind you again that she chose to leave. Ending our duty to her as a member of this household.”

  “She was young, Miss Hutchinson. Surely you felt a personal responsibility.”

  “I was young once, Inspector, with only my brother to take care of me. Our parents left us very little. I’m well aware of the pitfalls and dangers of being a woman without protection. We lived in lodgings, we were dependent on his officer’s pay. We were shunned by people who now respect us. I wore gowns I’d refurbished myself because I couldn’t afford new ones. If I survived, I believe she was clever enough and determined enough to survive as well. If she didn’t, if the body was hers after all, you must look elsewhere for her murderer.”

  And yet Fallowfield, in Ely, had believed Hutchinson had been left comfortably fixed by his parents. A claim to wealth and position to conceal his struggle to keep up appearances? Judging by the bitterness in Miss Hutchinson’s voice, he thought her version of their past was very likely the truth.

  “Now,” she was saying, “I should like to finish my lunch in peace. Good day, Mr. Rutledge. Good day, sir.”

  She turned back to her plate, ignoring them. But Rutledge had got what he wanted.

  Leaving her with a curt nod, he walked out of the dining room and said to Thornton, “All right, now we can go north.”

  “I don’t see what you learned here.”

  Outside, cranking the motorcar, Rutledge said, “The Hutchinsons were rather cavalier about the disappearance of Miss Beaton. Her grandfather would have considered that unconscionable. But would it have driven him to kill Hutchinson? Quite possibly. On the other hand, Swift did everything that was in his power to see that this position was safe and responsible.”

  “Did MacLaren know that?”

  It was a very good question. The young girl he had allowed to live in Glasgow had matured and decided to test her mettle in London. And something had gone wrong. Had she turned to Swift? Or tried to reach Scotland? Or had she died, an anonymous death in a city where life was cheaper than she knew? The London police had closed that case.

  And where did Thornton f
it in? He’d asked that before, and was still undecided. It was time to take him to Ely and arrange for a search warrant before the man could destroy any evidence. Inspector Warren could see to that.

  Again Thornton seemed to know what he was thinking.

  “You won’t cut me out of this inquiry. Good God, it’s my life that’s on the line. I’m your only suspect. And I’ll be damned if I won’t see this through to the finish.”

  Rutledge remembered what Belford had said about Thornton’s presence: Unorthodox—but effective.

  Tired as he was, Rutledge knew he dared not sleep in this man’s company. To sleep would mean to dream, and to dream would mean betrayal. Of himself, of Hamish.

  The sooner he reached Ely, the sooner he could rest.

  They were on the outskirts of Cambridge when Rutledge heard, as if from a great distance, Thornton swearing and grabbing his arm, then the wheel.

  Rutledge came awake with a start to find the motorcar running down the low embankment that led to a shallow farm pond. He pulled on the brake almost reflexively, and the motorcar juddered to a stop on the brink of the water’s edge, sending ducks and drakes scattering in a loud cacophony of angry quacks.

  Thornton said, “If you have a death wish, I don’t. Let me drive. I slept for three hours out of London, remember?”

  But the shock was enough to wipe away that leaden need for sleep. Rutledge backed up with great care until the tires were on the high road once more. What had he been dreaming? Something about ambulances—avoiding ambulances as he and his men marched along the rutted stretch of muddy track toward the front lines.

  They drove on, Thornton finally asleep again at his side. But it was impossible to reach Ely. They ran into a heavy storm just beyond Newmarket, black clouds pushing toward the coast. He could hear the steam pumps clattering away, straining to keep up with the incessant downpour, and ditches were running strong with rainwater, threatening to overflow.

  He pulled into Wriston, still well short of Ely, noticed that there had been hail here as well as rain, and drove on to the police station. McBride wasn’t there, but he took Thornton, arguing angrily, back to the single little cell, leaving him there. By the time he’d reached The Dutchman Inn, he was wet to the skin. Priscilla Bartram opened the door to him, and with apologies, he barely made it up to the room set aside for him. Stripping off his wet clothes, he fell across the bed and slept for nine hours.